The Fall
by The Muses of Mars
Summary: Aziraphale is having the bookshop renovated and finds it's true what they say: nearly half of all accidents occur in the home. Ineffable Husbands Week, Day 3 Prompt: "Fall." (mortal/human A/U)


"How much longer is this going to take?" Crowley complained, pacing around the middle of the bookshop floor, kicking at debris.

From high atop a ladder, where he was perched with a paintbrush in his hand, Aziraphale looked out at the tarp-covered bookcases, stacks of both old and new wood planks, and fragments of plaster and miscellaneous rubble littering the ground. "Oh…two more weeks, at least," Aziraphale estimated.

"Not for the entire renovation," Crowley snapped. "I meant how long before you're finished with whatever you're doing up there so we can go and get lunch!"

"Oh." Aziraphale appraised the column he'd been painting. He was replacing the brown paint with gold. Actually, the columns had been bronze, once upon a time, but their gleam had faded and dulled, and he wanted them looking extra shiny and new. But it was a lot of work for one person. He'd hired a crew to do the heavy lifting, of course—the staircase replacement, the flooring work, the major repairs. But he'd thought it would be a waste of money to hire someone to paint. Anyone could paint. All you needed was a bucket and a brush and a nice, tall ladder. "Well, you're in luck," he said, sensing Crowley's impatience. "I was just about to take a break."

"Excellent! To the Ritz, then?"

As Aziraphale had suspected, Crowley was talking with his stomach. He got a bit testy when he was hungry. Or tired. Or bored.

"That sounds brilliant," Aziraphale said agreeably. "I'll be down in two shakes." The ladder shuddered beneath his weight as if to demonstrate his point as he put the lid back on the paint can and began his descent.

"Be careful!" Crowley shouted up at him. "I can't catch you if you fall."

Aziraphale said nothing. Crowley was _quite_ testy, which meant he must be _very_ hungry. So he tried to descend the ladder as quickly as he could, while at the same time trying to take off his paint-splattered apron.

"One thing at a time, Aziraphale!" Crowley sounded a bit shrill. Then he was crying out in genuine fear, watching helplessly as Aziraphale's foot missed a step and the man went careening from the ladder straight to the floor.

"AZIRAPHALE!" Crowley screamed. He dove to the fallen man's side, but it was too late. "Angel!" he pleaded frantically. He was afraid to move him, almost afraid to touch him. But he checked for a pulse with one hand while his other was fumbling with his cell phone to dial 9-9-9.

* * *

It was the sounds he noticed first. There were all sorts of unfamiliar hums and beeps amidst the buzz of distant chatter. And he was cold, very cold.

Aziraphale opened his eyes and his vision slowly came into focus. The second thing he noticed was how ugly the ceiling was.

"Aziraphale! You're awake!"

He turned his head stiffly, just in time to see Crowley leap from a chair to his bedside. He parted his lips to speak but his mouth was dry and his throat was sore.

"Hold still," Crowley ordered. "My darling," he murmured, kissing Aziraphale's forehead, then his nose, then the rest of his face. "My darling idiot. Don't you ever scare me like that again."

"I'm not even sure what happened," Aziraphale confessed hoarsely, once Crowley had given him room to breathe and a small sip of cool water.

"You're in the hospital, you fool," Crowley said, his words harsh but his tone gentle. He ran his fingers through Aziraphale's soft, blond curls, barely able to resist climbing onto the hospital bed with him, just to feel him close. "You fell off that stupid ladder—just like I said you would."

"I…I did? Oh, good heavens." Aziraphale struggled beneath the thin sheet, wiggling the feeling back into his hands before reaching up and fingering the stiff collar around his neck. "Oh, good heavens…" he breathed again, realization dawning on him. He could have been killed.

Crowley was right to be furious. "I'm not letting you set one foot on that thing again, do you hear me?"

"That's…probably for the best."

"Don't argue with me, Angel. We'll hire someone to finish the painting, and all the rest, too."

"For once I'm in complete agreement with you."

"And another thing—oh, you're what?" Crowley was startled into silence. Then he said, "Oh. Well, that's fine, then." He seemed almost disappointed to cool his temper. He quickly fired it up again. "It serves you right. You'll be living off hospital food for a week, and I'm not sorry."

Aziraphale's face crumbled. "Oh, no, _please_," he begged mournfully. "It isn't _fair_. I didn't _mean_ to fall."

Crowley tried and failed to maintain his angry face. "I know," he sighed at last. "That's why I brought these." He grabbed a bag of donuts from a side table and held them up for Aziraphale to see. They were from his lover's favorite bakery.

"Oh! Oh, Crowley, you're so good to me," Angel crooned at him.

"Shut up," Crowley grumbled, sounding far more annoyed than he truly was. "I should beat you with the bag and make you eat mashed up donuts for what you put me through."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, love," Aziraphale said fretfully. "I promise I won't let it happen again."

"Good." Crowley dropped the donut bag onto Aziraphale's stomach unceremoniously. "Get rid of those before the nurses see them. I'll go find you a blanket."


End file.
